help me

I maintain that my wife is one of the nicest — if not the nicest — person you will ever meet. I have often talked about and given examples of just how nice she is. She is helpful, kind, thoughtful and considerate of her fellow human — something that is a rarity in today's deteriorating society. In noting just how nice Mrs. Pincus is, I am careful to point out that I, admittedly, am not nice. I am, by comparison, the exact opposite of nice. I have nothing but contempt for my fellow individual. I am aware of how I feel and how wrong it really is, but I just can't help it. I am one of those people who could walk into a room full of strangers and say to myself: "Look at all these assholes," expecting each person to demonstrate nice behavior in an effort to change my mind. Mrs. Pincus, on the other hand, would try to figure out how she could help everyone. I defy you to find someone nicer... and before you answer, may I remind you that Mother Teresa is dead.

We live within very close proximity to several supermarkets, far more than are needed to properly accommodate the needs of the community. For the past six or so years, Mrs. Pincus has been doing regular supermarket runs for her parents. My in-laws are both 90 and their mobility has diminished in recent years. Curiously, their marketing demands have increased at the same rate that their mobility has decreased. It is not unusual for Mrs. Pincus to receive daily phone calls from her parents, asking with faux innocence: "Are you going to the supermarket today?" Of course, she will ask what they need and obligingly go to the supermarket to fulfill their request. Sometimes those requests come two and three times a day. Sometimes, the request includes a specific supermarket at which the particular item or items need to be purchased. (They like the bagels from Giant, but they like the salmon from Aldi.) There are some days where Mrs. P has visited three or more supermarkets to satisfy her parents extremely specific shopping requirements.

A few days ago, Mrs. P found herself in the produce section of a nearby Acme Market. This Acme, while closest in distance to our home, is the least frequented of all the markets in our area. They are expensive. They are poorly stocked. Their staff is less than cheerful and, after several remodeling efforts, the entire store is very difficult to navigate. But, my father-in-law asked for a very specific type of orange or lime or something that is only available at Acme... allegedly. So, his dutiful, obedient and nice daughter went to Acme.

While strolling the vast, labyrinthine aisles of Acme's produce section, Mrs. Pincus located the fruit in question and added it to her shopping handbasket. As she headed towards the check-out area, she passed a woman holding a clear plastic hinged container filled with watermelon, cut up into manageable chunks. Just a split second after they passed each other, Mrs. Pincus casually turned to watch this woman's left foot slide on something, raise up and out from under her and deposit the poor woman square on her ass on the tiled floor. She let out a pained cry as she sat splayed on the floor, surrounded by the wet chunks of watermelon that had escaped the now-opened container. Mrs. Pincus instinctively approached the woman and asked if she was all right, then cautioned her not to move. Mrs. Pincus quickly scanned the produce department and spotted a worker — a slow-moving woman sporting an angry scowl on her face. Before being asked, the Acme employee quickly — and defensively — asserted: "There's no water on the floor!" and she repeated the statement several times. Mrs. Pincus calmly  asked the employee to summon the store manager and also asked for a chair for the woman who fell. As the employee scurried off, still muttering about no water being on the floor, another employee arrived with a scooter shopping cart in place of a chair. Against her better judgement, but wishing to make the customer as comfortable as possible, Mrs. Pincus slowly and carefully helped the woman onto the seat of the scooter, first confirming that she was ready to move and be assisted. 

Firmly gripping the woman by the waistband of her pants, Mrs. Pincus slowly maneuvered her on to the seat where the woman seemed to be more comfortable, but still in visible shock and pain. By this time, the store manager appeared with a clipboard, ready to take a full description of the incident and displaying way more compassion than the "No Water on the Floor" Acme associate. Mrs. Pincus asked the woman if she was shopping alone today. The woman replied, "No." and explained that her daughter was already in the checkout line and she had just come over to pick up a forgotten container of cut-up fruit. Mrs. P asked for her daughter's name so she could find her to bring her over. The woman also began massaging her own shoulder, revealing that she had just been released from rehab, where she was recovering from shoulder surgery.

Mrs. Pincus swiftly made her way to the checkout area and located the woman's daughter by loudly announcing her name. She accompanied my wife back to the scene in the produce department, elaborating on her mother's recent shoulder surgery. The store manager had begun writing down the woman's account, asking what she thought may have caused her to fall. The manager, the woman's daughter, the "No Water on the Floor" employee and my wife all began searching the immediate area until Mrs. Pincus spotted a clear piece of plastic that had almost completely slipped under a display counter of oranges. Apparently, it was the covering of a price sign and had fallen on the floor. Its shiny finish provided the "perfect storm" of slick surface on top and bottom — sliding on the waxed floor as well as sliding under someone's foot. The store manager sheepishly examined the errant plastic square and frowned. Then he asked the woman if she would like an ambulance. Before she could answer, Mrs. Pincus whispered to her daughter that it would be wise to accept the offer. An ambulance was called. Mrs. Pincus was also asked for a statement and she offered her corroborating version of the episode. She also volunteered her contact information to the woman's daughter. Then she moved on to finish her parents' shopping order.

Later in the day, Mrs. Pincus received a text from the woman's daughter She said that her mother was taken to the hospital for x-rays. X-rays that confirmed her mother's shoulder was broken. Mrs. P offered a sympathetic reply and added that she'd be available for any further required information.

My wife asked me if I would have helped the woman who fell and if I would have stuck around and done any of things that she did.

I answered, "No, of course not."

Mrs. Pincus is nice. Josh Pincus is not.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

i got your number

I have always been terrible at math. I struggled with math classes from elementary school through high school. I find numbers intimidating. After high school, I attended an art school that did not offer any academic classes. That’s the one I chose specifically because I would never have to deal with a math teacher again. However, a small aspect of my job requires a rudimentary understanding of the most basic of math skills. In those instances, I use a calculator or my fingers or an entry-level equation scribbled on a piece of scrap paper. I hate math and I try to avoid it as much as I can. Numbers and I just don't  seem to get along. 

I like to think, with some exceptions (specifically the notorious “dropped cake” incident that, to this day, remains a contentious subject in the Pincus family saga), that I have a pretty good memory. I remember things from my childhood like vacations (because there were so few of them) and toys that I received as birthday presents. I have vivid memories of those birthday parties (at which I received the aforementioned presents). Of course, I remember lots of details from the numerous television shows I watched as a kid. That knowledge has netted me quite a collection of plastic trophies aboard many a cruise ship – a stellar achievement, if I do say so. 

In my current job, I am required to put to use my keen memory and my poor relationship with numbers on a daily basis. This requisite is not technically related to my job, per se, but it does allow me to enter the building in order to do my job. 

 

Every morning, for the past five years, I pull up to my workplace – a commercial printer - at around 6:30. The parking lot spaces are filled with cars belonging to the folks who work the night shift and there they will sit until the shift ends at 7. The entrance to the building leads through a small portion of the printing plant. It’s a space approximately the size of an airplane hangar which houses printing presses so large that the operator has to actually climb inside it to refill ink or clean press rollers. The paper itself, which comes in enormous rolls, is loaded onto the machine with a forklift. But before I am able to witness the final thirty minutes of the graveyard shift, I must punch a code into a small touchpad mounted on the outside wall next to the locked entrance door. It’s a four-digit number and It remains etched in my long-term memory since I first used it in 2021. I press the correct buttons – each one emitting a different electronic tone with each touch – until I hear a low “BEEP” letting me know the door has been unlocked. It is only then that I can enter. 

Once inside, I follow a designated safety path – delineated by bright yellow painted lines – that skirts the perimeter of the plant. At any given time, a speeding forklift, toting fresh rolls of printing paper or wooden pallets stacked high with printed material, could be crisscrossing the plant floor. These unwieldy drivers rarely yield to their pedestrian co-workers, so sticking to the painted walkway is wise. The path leads to an electronic timeclock. I never would have thought that, at nearly 65 years old, I still be punching a timeclock much in the same way I did at my first part-time job as a teenager. But, life is funny and career paths are funnier, so here I am. The timeclock also requires a four-digit code to start the process of logging my daily work hours. This is a different code than the one that allows me entrance to the building. This code is also stored in the “very important section” of my long-term memory alongside the entrance code. The VIP section is in a different part of my brain from the repository that catalogues such things as “Who played Grandmama on The Addams Family and “What song did Queen open with on the first night of the News of the World tour stop at the Philadelphia Spectrum.” No sir, those four-digit numbers need to be front and center, as they are extremely important and employed regularly. 

 

After I punch in at the timeclock, I turn on my heels and approach the locked access door to my office area. This door is also protected by an electronic lock that is deactivated by a similar keypad as the one outside the building entrance. It also uses the same building entrance four-digit code. Sometimes, if the many printing presses are running, it is difficult to hear the individual button tones as they are pressed. I have to rely on the green light at the top of the keypad to let me know that I touched the right buttons in the right order. If that is done correctly, I still have one more hurdle before I can begin work for the day. 

Just inside the office door is an alarm keypad. Why there is an alarm guarding the design department is beyond me. Aside from a bunch of outdated computers, a pile of cables and power strips and someone’s day-old lunch lying forgotten in the community refrigerator, there ain’t too much to steal. Nevertheless, the alarm is set long after I leave work for the day, so I’m not sure whose responsibility it is, but it's always set. Well, nearly always. Over the past five years, I have been surprised once or twice by an unarmed alarm. On most mornings, however, I have to punch in yet a third unique four-digit code to prevent the obnoxious wail of a siren from sounding off and summoning local law enforcement. That is a very unwelcome situation, especially before the clock strikes 7 AM. So, I enter the correct code until the comforting phrase “DISARMED CHIME” glows assuredly across the green LED display. Much like Indiana Jones navigating his way through a series of obstacles that are keeping him from his ultimate reward, I am ready to begin another productive day at work. That is after I fish around in the darkened hallway for the light switch. 

I have completed the above procedure approximately 1200 times over the past five years. On several occasions, I will sheepishly admit, I have totally blanked on one or all of the three unique four-digit codes. I have found myself staring at the outside keypad, looking at the ten buttons and the zillions of numerical combinations they present. Sometimes, it takes me several minutes to bring the correct information to the “immediate action” part of my brain. Sometimes it happens at every step of my entrance process – the front door, the timeclock, the office door and the alarm. Sometimes, I stare at each piece of equipment as though I have never seen it before, as though I have no inkling of its purpose or how to activate it. Sometimes, I instinctively lift my index finger, ready to punch in a number that I just plain cannot remember… and I stand there, frozen, finger extended, brow furrowed, trying to force the correct four-digit sequence to my frontal lobe where it would be useful. Sometimes, I can remember the code, but I enter it into the wrong device. Sometimes, I need to refer to a note I have stored in my cellphone – a sort of “cheat sheet” with all of the codes and the corresponding electronic instrument.

Other days, I knock out those numbers like I was tying my shoes.

When you reach a certain age, daily routines seem to make life boring. But for me, every day is an adventure.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

the sporting life

I am not particularly athletic. My brother — now, there's an athletic guy! He has played on various softball teams. He has participated in several marathon runs. He has bowled. He has golfed. He was on the wrestling team in college. He bikes. Me? Not even close. 

Except that one time.

Back in the early 90s, I worked for a legal publisher. I was a layout artist, responsible for the composition of several dozen newsletters dealing with specific aspects of the legal industry. This was the first job I had that could be considered as part of the "corporate" world. Prior to this, I was employed by small companies with a client base that did not stretch beyond the Philadelphia area. At this job, however, I dealt with coworkers in several different states, across many departments and sub-departments. My department itself, was divided into different divisions, with each one made fully-aware of their responsibilities and how they were to interact with the other divisions. It was very regimented and very structured. I got used to the culture and, to my surprise, I enjoyed it. It was also the first job in which I actually socialized with my coworkers. Previously, at other jobs, I came in to work, did my job and went home — with little to no interaction with co-workers. At this job, there was a very close camaraderie among co-workers. I ended up going to after work "happy hours" with co-workers, as well as other friendly, so-called "morale building" extra-curricular activities.

I was hired in March and as spring rolled around, I was recruited to join the company softball team. Although I was a pretty avid baseball fan, I had zero skills on the field. I worked with a group of guys who rivaled my brother in athletic ability. Of course, there were also a few who were at my level of ineptitude, so the playing field was evened, so to speak. But, everyone was very enthusiastic about the upcoming softball season. We would be playing other teams comprised of employees from neighboring office complexes. Once the team was assembled — a co-ed group, as dictated by league rules — we decided to get in a little practice before our first scheduled game.

Oh, man, did we suck. We were terrible in the field. With a few (very few) exceptions, we were terrible at bat. All that was missing was the mocking tones of Bizet's Carmen serving as the accompaniment to our version of the beleaguered Bad News Bears. Nevertheless, we all had fun and, I think, that was more important than anything. Actually, a cooler full of beer. That was most important.

On the day of our first scheduled game, the team spoke excitedly throughout the day. After work, we gathered at a nearby public park, where a ballfield had been reserved for us to play a team from a computer software company from our industrial park. As we lazily batted balls around and half-heartedly fielded grounders, a van pulled up and a group of guys claiming to be the software team exited. We collectively stared as these guys looked like professionals, right down to their matching jerseys and well-worn spikes. An impartial umpire, hired by the corporate league, called for the game to commence. And commence it did... much to our dismay. We got our asses handed to us, as ball after ball flew over our outfielders' heads and each infield grounder was played in an uncannily accurate recreation of Bill Buckner's infamous play in Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. By the third inning, the ten run "mercy rule" was implemented and we all got to go home early.

As the season progressed, things didn't change. We didn't get any better. The competition, however, did get better, as the "ten run rule" came into play earlier and earlier. But, we didn't care. We were there to have fun. And have fun we did, After a few games, the cooler full of beer went from one to two per game. Our team laughed off poorly executed plays. We snickered at swings made at purposely bad pitches. Our opponents, at times, grew angry at our on-field antics, but we didn't care. We were having fun. 

We adopted the team name "OBI," which stood for "one bad inning. (We even got t-shirts with a logo I designed depicting a hapless fielder watching an easy ground ball pass between his ankles.) That was our typical downfall — one bad inning. It usually came early and it was usually enough to end our games early, too. But, still, we were having the most fun of anyone on the field. 

One game, a few guys from our on-site printing plant showed up to play. They belted enough long balls to rack up a win for our team. (Granted, the other team was playing with a bunch of first-timers, as their regular players were away at a conference.) Our celebration prompted our self-appointed manager to suggest that we — as a team — visit a nearby batting cages to get in some extra practice. The team returned his suggestion with a look of dumbfoundedness and rousing chorus of "fuck you!" We still weren't interested in getting better. Most of us were only interested in getting together and drinking beer.

We ended the season with just that single win, surrounded by a whole bunch of empty beer cans.

But, boy! did we have fun!

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

he rode a blazing saddle

The internet is filled with opinions. There is a recent trend among posts on such micro-blogger sites as X and Threads as far as opinions are concerned. That is the concept of "unpopular opinion." Users preface their unpopular opinion posts with "Unpopular opinion, but..." and proceed to offer an opinion on a particular topic. "Unpopular," however, is a relative term, depending on the circles in which you travel. Statements like "Unpopular opinion but, mustard doesn't belong on any type of sandwich." are just looking for an argument. The ones that say things like "Unpopular opinion but, Charles Manson was an awful person" are just plain stupid. Opinions on things like television shows, movies, books or food are just opinions. They can only be labeled "popular" or "unpopular" depending on who is reading the statement. I have noticed that a lot of "unpopular" opinions reflect the way I feel. So, I will venture into the realm of "unpopular opinions" and register one of my own.

"Unpopular opinion but, I can't watch Blazing Saddles anymore."

I saw Blazing Saddles in its initial theatrical release. I went to the movies with my parents. It was six months before my 13th birthday. I was familiar with Mel Brooks and his brand of comedy. I loved watching Get Smart. I loved seeing Mel and then partner Carl Reiner play out their "2000 Year Old Man" act on the Ed Sullivan Show. I loved staying up to see Mel Brooks give a frenzied interview on The Tonight Show with  Johnny Carson. I got most of the jokes in The Producers, the first Mel Brooks movie I ever saw and one of my mom's favorites. But when Blazing Saddles hit the theaters, my dad couldn't wait to see it.

My dad was a proud racist. He watched All in the Family as though it was a documentary. He spewed out ethnic epithets as part of his normal everyday conversation. He spoke the notorious "N-word" the way some people say "good morning." That word popped up regularly in dinnertime conversation. My father often peppered his rundown of the day's activities with the "N-word" when describing interactions with customers at the supermarket at which he worked. Sporting events broadcast on television were cheered on by my father with phrases like "look at that 'N-word' run!" It was only as an adult that I realized that this was so grossly wrong and — in hindsight — it should have turned my stomach the way it does now.

My father didn't stop at African-Americans. His vitriol was hurled at Asians, Italians, those of Polish extraction, the Irish, Catholics and even Jews... despite the fact that we were Jewish! So, when my dad read the early reviews of Blazing Saddles, he couldn't wait to be a part of the experience. And when we saw the film... boy! oh boy! did my dad laugh. To be honest, everyone laughed.

Yes, yes... I fully understand that Blazing Saddles was written as biting satire. I know that Mel Brooks collaborated with Richard Pryor, a pioneer in controversial comedy and himself master of topical satire. I get that the way certain words and phrases in Blazing Saddles are used was very well thought out. The jokes are always at the expense of the bigoted ignorant characters. These characters are presented as too stupid to know they are stupid. Cleavon Little, as protagonist "Sheriff Bart," is intelligent and always outsmarts the brainless townspeople. I know that Richard Pryor encouraged Mel Brooks to employ the "N-word" in an effort to "tell the truth" about how racial prejudice functions as a brutal weapon in America. Mel Brooks fought with Warner Brothers over the inclusion of the word. Brooks, whose contract explicitly gave him final content control, stood his ground, making few and insignificant changes to the script.

I get all that. But in 2026, I cringe when I hear that word.

I am reminded of a time when that word was used in sitcoms that I watched. It was used on Sanford and Son, All in the Family and The Jeffersons. It was famously used in a skit on a first season episode of Saturday Night Live, where host Richard Pryor and cast member Chevy Chase played a very racially-charged game of Word Association. I am reminded of a time when that word rolled off my father's tongue like he was asking my brother to "pass the peas" at the dinner table. The use of that word, over time, tapered off on television to the point where now, it is audibly "bleeped" and appears as a line of asterisks in closed-captioning. 

This afternoon, Turner Classic Movies is showing a selection of Mel Brooks movies in honor of his 100th birthday. Wedged between Spaceballs and Young Frankenstein is Blazing Saddles.

Happy Birthday, Mel Brooks. I still can't bring myself to watch.

www.joshpincusiscrying.com